


When the Cold Bites

by idontblogforsherlockholmes



Series: Thawing Icy Hearts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kissing, Sexual Confusion, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:07:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontblogforsherlockholmes/pseuds/idontblogforsherlockholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John looks forward to a morning without Sherlock. Well, it doesn't last long. Instead, he is met with some strange feelings and a wet toe...</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Cold Bites

Clink - Down went the black and avocado striped mug on the kitchen surface. The steam rose up to the ceiling, curling and twisting before vanishing. John inhaled the comforting smell of tea and closed his eyes. Today was a good day. Sherlock Holmes was not in the house. These days were rare, for he was constantly popping in and out of the flat to grab this and that.  
‘Just needed some extra eyeballs, John,’ or, ‘JOHN! Where did you put my petri dish?’  
Life was never simple in 221B, but it was never boring. How could it be, when you constantly had to be around someone who either acted like a god, or thought he was one?  
He tightened his dressing gown and lifted his cup of tea. ‘Shit!’ He cursed as the boiling liquid sloshed out of his mug and onto his bare foot. Frowning, he decided that that definitely wasn’t going to ruin his day of peace. He turned around and took a sip of his tea, shaking his wet foot.

‘Tea towel?’  
‘WHAT THE F-!’ John choked as the mug shattered on the floor, the precious liquid seeping in between John’s toes.  
Sherlock stood in front of him holding a red tea towel, one eyebrow raised. Not attempting to aid John’s coughing fit in any way, he stated, ‘You shouldn’t inhale tea.’  
John, face red with slight embarrassment and lack of oxygen, retorted, ‘It wasn’t bloody intentional. You made me jump, and that was my last teabag! Not to mention my favourite mug smashed.’  
Sherlock remained still. He held out the tea towel further, and John swore and snatched it out of his long hands. John got down on the cool floor and started to gingerly pick up the pieces of broken mug. Sherlock turned around and walked to the sofa, lying down and closing his eyes.  
John carried on mopping the floor, fuming. Great, his sodding day was ruined. No peace. Violins, shouting at the door, random experiments and talking until the sun went down. And there wasn’t even any tea. But part of John was slightly pleased that he wasn’t off doing… well, whatever he was doing. John felt his arms go slightly numb. He frowned and stood up, pushing the mop to the side. 

He walked into the living room, sat down on his chair and picked up a newspaper. He looked over at Sherlock, who was abnormally silent. Well, if the day was going to be like this he was in for a treat. He studied Sherlock. His curly, dark hair was hanging just over his right eyelid, and John had the sudden impulse to go over and move it away. He stared at him, interested by his looks for the first time. How was he so tall? He seemed to get taller every time he looked. 

‘John. Stop staring at me. Your studying is making me lose my concentration. It’s flattering, although slightly disconcerting.’  
Sherlock’s eyes flew open and caught John eyeing him. His cheeks flared and he closed his mouth with a slight click.  
‘I- I wasn’t staring at you. I was merely wondering why you were at home today. You were investigating that case?’  
‘Boring. Lestrade called and said not to bother. I wanted to inquire more but he said that it was very basic – they solved it themselves after realising their errors. I wasn’t needed. I lost interest after Lestrade mentioned Anderson. I hung up and decided to come and get a cup of coffee. You were whistling, and I decided to listen. It was highly entertaining, better than any case, I’d say.’ Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked.  
John, still blushing, rolled his eyes. ‘No playing the violin then. Or shouting at the telly. Or ringing up Lestrade every five seconds – he’s started texting me now.’ He brought the newspaper up to his face.  
Within seconds he heard Sherlock huff. ‘Don’t try and act as though you’re reading that, John. You obviously have something on your mind or else you would actually be reading the article.’  
John ground his teeth together. The moment of being glad Sherlock was there had rapidly gone. He was infuriatingly right, and it just got on John’s nerves.  
‘It’s a very interesting article about a murder case in London, actually.’  
Sherlock sighed. ‘I’m sure it is, John. That is why you have decided to read it upside down, I always find I take in more information that way,’  
John flung down the newspaper with a hiss. He crossed his legs and stared out of the window. When losing an argument with Sherlock Holmes, sometimes silence was the best remedy.

‘Knock knock! Tea!’ Mrs Hudson popped her head around the door, grinning.  
‘You don’t have to knock in your own house, Mrs H.’ John smiled gratefully at the steaming mug.  
Mrs Hudson was in her classic outfit, but she had changed her colours and it suited her lipstick. John noted that she must be meeting somebody. She looked down at John and smiled.  
‘Oh, you never know dear. Wouldn’t want to intrude on the both of you, it’s never good to intrude on couples in the early morning, I have learnt that the hard way, dear.’  
John coughed, nearly choking on cup of tea for the second time that morning. Sherlock merely smirked at the ceiling.  
‘Mrs Hudson, we’re not-‘  
‘Sherlock, I thought you were off this morning?’ She ignored John’s protesting and directed her next conversation starter at the lazy and sarky Sherlock, although he didn’t seem very enthusiastic to repeat the conversation he had had with John minutes earlier. Of course, instead of voicing this he merely rolled his eyes and turned over. 

 

Later on, John was the one lying on the sofa. Or rather maybe he should say: two ridiculous games of Cluedo, one tense game of cards, three failed experiments and four cups of tea later. Sherlock was watching a murder series on the telly. John glanced at him – probably a bad idea to let him watch anything actually but it was either that or him shooting the wall. He was sat cross legged, his hands resting on his knees and his brow furrowed. He had just been in the shower, and his wet hair stuck to his head creating curls around his sideburns.  
‘Ridiculous! Why would he kill his brother after what they went through? Plus his hands aren’t big enough to match the print!’ He threw his hands up in the air and growled at the TV. John grinned and rolled his eyes.  
He looked again at Sherlock. He noticed how pale his hands were and it gave him butterflies.  
‘Hey Sherlock, you could have been a pianist, your fingers and hands are really long!’ John chuckled to himself.  
Sherlock turned his head to John and scrutinised him. John immediately stopped laughing and looked down.  
‘Why were you staring at my hands?’ John blushed for the thousandth time that day and coughed. Sherlock had a way of looking right into your mind and it was slightly intimidating. Especially when John had been looking at Sherlock’s elegant hands for about ten minutes. Sherlock just stared at him. He just kept staring. In the end John got up and went to his room. 

 

John and Sherlock were at a case. The snow gripped London with its icy hand, and a blackbird stood out with its smooth feathers against the silvery bitter ground.  
Sherlock’s black hair was magnificent in the haze of white, and John noticed this. As usual, Sherlock was being his intelligent and confident self.  
‘Asphyxiation, Sherlock. He didn’t die of blood loss, the cuts were made later on and they aren’t deep enough to hit the right veins that would release a significant amount of blood.’ John noted after examining the freezing cold corpse lying face up on the ground. Blood had seeped from her arms around the ice and looked alarmingly beautiful – her jet black coat making her look like a poppy dead in the winter.  
Sherlock looked at John and a hint of pride was detectable in his voice. ‘Very good, Doctor.’ John got butterflies in his stomach and he didn’t understand why. Sherlock carried on, ‘This woman was clearly poisoned by somebody. How? The inhaler in her bag.’  
Lestrade rolled his eyes. ‘She had lots of other things in her bag too. Why would it be the inhaler?’  
Sherlock looked irritated and took a deep breath. ‘Because the bag of medicine was at the top of her bag and it was hastily put back there. The zip of her bag was undone and the paper bag wasn’t folded correctly. Now, as for the inhaler. The colour is different to those of normal ones. The plastic isn’t the right sort of plastic. The imprints on the bottom have been scraped and filed then reprinted. It is a fake inhaler.’ Sgt Donovan raised her eyebrows then quickly put them back down again, obviously trying to hide the fact that she was clearly impressed by Sherlock’s deduction. He carried on, ‘When you smell it, it makes you want to cough straight away. It makes your eyes water. It’s concentrated chlorine gas. The killer made sure she missed her bus on the way back from the doctors so that she had to hurry back to work, therefore being out of breath and needing to use her inhaler. That is why she used it and within seconds she was choking and couldn’t breathe. She must have quickly replaced it in her bag before dropping to the floor, coughing. But the killer must have been walking past or someone else must have walked past her and caught her before she fell, claiming to aid her. Instead, cut her wrists and called an ambulance and slunk away while the crowd tried to comprehend how the blood got there. It was a simple yet clever plan and it certainly worked. Her lungs filled with hydrochloric acid and she died. Now, after some blood tests to confirm, we shall need to consult the doctor’s surgery to interrogate some workers.’ Sherlock finished with one eyebrow raised, not even out of breath.  
‘That was hot.’ John blurted out loud without thought.  
He swore and rose his hand in front of his mouth. Sgt Donovan gasped and looked awkwardly at the floor. Lestrade’s jaw dropped as he stared at John in disbelief. Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked at John in a curious way before clearing his throat. John closed his eyes as the heat rose up his neck. John stammered. ‘I didn’t mean- I only… I’m sorry, I don’t…‘  
Nobody moved, and John turned on his heel and strode away from everyone, running both hands through his hair. The snow crunched satisfyingly under his shoes, but tears of humiliation gathered at the corners of his eyes.  
‘John!’ Sherlock called unexpectedly from far behind him, but John kept walking. Holding his hand in the air he called a cab, and with a fluid motion jumped in the taxi and drove off, leaving the embarrassing scene behind. That journey back to the flat changed how he thought about a few things. His sexuality. He thought he was straight, but he had been obviously pushing away thoughts that he didn’t realise he was having. Bisexual? He was confused. Then he thought about Sherlock. His hands, his hair, his eyes, his cheekbones. The jealously of seeing him with Irene. The feelings he got when he complimented John on his medical skills. He closed his eyes and sighed.

John was in his room, lying face down on his bed. His phone constantly went off, vibrating against the wooden bedside table. He ignored the calls and texts of course. He was too frightened to talk to anyone, or to hear what they had to say about anything. He didn’t even know what had happened himself, so he definitely didn’t want to know what others had decided or thought about him.  
Sherlock was on his laptop in the living room, and he could hear him sighing every now and then. The problem was, was that John was really thirsty. He decided to wait until Sherlock was concentrating.  
After about five minutes when he heard no more sighing from Sherlock he crept to the door, opening it slowly. He padded to the kitchen where Sherlock was making a cup of tea. Damn. Mistake. He couldn’t turn back now because it would look weird, so he kept his head down and walked up to Sherlock. He opened the cupboard and grabbed a glass. He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him as he filled the glass from the tap.  
‘John.’ His gravelly voice filled the kitchen. John froze. After a few seconds he turned back around and headed towards his room. He closed the door, breathing heavily. He sipped his water and lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. 

The next morning was painful. John forced himself to get up after the fifth snooze. He didn’t shower and dressed in a hurry, not bothering to shave or put on matching socks. He grabbed his coat and didn’t look Sherlock in the eye.  
‘You’re coming?’ Sherlock aimed the question at his back.  
‘Yes.’ John stated.  
Nothing was said on the journey, however Sherlock kept studying John. He pretended not to notice or care.  
They met with Lestrade and Donovan at the crime scene, the same as the previous day. Sherlock and John were there to collect evidence, but as soon as they gathered as a group it became very awkward. John just looked broken and didn’t talk or look at anybody, and everyone else felt sorry for him. As for Sherlock, he continued to stare at John. It was curious, and nobody could read his face. 

During the lunch break John walked a few meters from the others and leant against a wall with his coffee. He tilted his head up towards the sky and sighed, wishing he could turn back time and not blurt things out. Out of nowhere Sherlock appeared in front of him.  
‘John.’  
John simply blinked and sipped his coffee.  
Sherlock gently squeezed John’s arm and he swallowed.  
‘Look at me.’ Sherlock demanded, taking the cup of coffee away from him and placing it on the wall. Donovan and Lestrade and a few other people were glancing towards them in curiosity, but nothing more.  
John looked down and locked eyes with Sherlock. He clenched his jaw and pursed his lips, waiting for Sherlock to speak.  
Sherlock opened his mouth slightly and whispered, ‘Don’t make me do this, John. Not here.’  
John looked taken aback and shook his head. ‘Do what?’  
Sherlock blinked very slowly and then stared into John’s eyes. He raised his hand to John’s face, his pale, long fingers brushing against his cheek. John gasped and tried to speak but Sherlock raised his other hand to place a finger on his lips. John swallowed again and his pupils dilated, though he was shivering. Sherlock used his right hand to press his chest against the wall as he leant in to kiss him.  
John’s senses exploded as Sherlock’s lips touched his. As he pressed his warm mouth to John’s he could taste hints of coffee and mint. Sherlock’s tongue grazed his bottom lip and John let him enter. Their tongues danced as everyone around stared in utter disbelief. Sally Donovan dropped her cup of coffee and it sprayed all over the concrete.  
John reached up his hand and wove his fingers slowly through the detective’s black, soft hair. His fingers entwined in his curls, John expressed his hidden love for the man he had admired for so long.  
Eventually they pulled away and John rested his head on Sherlock’s chest. Everyone around them cheered as loudly as they could, while John blushed and smiled into Sherlock’s coat.  
‘John, we need to get home. You need a rest.’ And with a last peck Sherlock walked away from the dishevelled John and towards the jeering but happy Lestrade, asking to pack up for the day.  
John looked up at the sky and cleared his throat, closing his eyes as snowdrops fell on his warm, wet lips. He smiled.

 

Sherlock turned away from Lestrade to look at John Watson, who was leaning his head against the wall about fifteen metres away. They still didn’t know much about who had killed this woman from their case, but strangely, Sherlock though it could wait. For the first time in days, he smiled – properly. Sherlock didn’t understand what love was before. He thought it was kissing and arguing and having butterflies. He’d googled it countless times but not quite understood what the point of it was. He thought he understood John Watson. He was quite wrong. However, he also thought he knew himself. Turns out he was wrong about that, too. He felt butterflies when John came near him, he didn’t want it to happen and couldn’t explain it, but it did, and unfortunately it was something he couldn’t control. The thoughts he had previously had about love were actually real. He didn’t seem to mind it, but apparently, neither did John. 

Sherlock walked towards the relaxing John, and saw that he too was watching him. John started walking towards Sherlock. They didn’t care about anyone watching, all that mattered was that they were going to be together. 

A loud explosion sounded in the cold air as Sherlock reached John, and they smiled at each other. Sherlock watched John’s face as his bright smile faded and he looked down. Everything was in slow motion as John gently fell backwards, mouth slightly open in shock. Sherlock, as time decelerated before him, moved swiftly to John and caught him as he lay down on the snow. The shot rang in his ears, and Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear the noise. John lay calmly, although his shoulders quivered and his hands shook. Crimson seeped around John like red ink into parchment, diffusing slowly around into the crystals, staining them, creating an abysmal picture. Sherlock laughed bitterly and it turned into a yell. There was so much noise everywhere, and Sherlock roared into the ground. John gazed at Sherlock with shining eyes. Sherlock pressed a bleached hand onto his garnet chest, pressing onto the bullet wound and furthermore trying to feel his heart.  
John whispered, ‘I love you, Sherlock Holmes.’ He smiled again, raising his hand to weave his hands into Sherlock’s hair.  
He reacted, his voice cracking, ‘If I will never get the chance to say it again, then I love you too, my unspoiled, audacious Doctor. Hang on, please just hang on for me.’ Sherlock blinked away tears and suppressed a sob.  
Then there were hands everywhere, shouts and cries, Lestrade was there, Donovan, Anderson, countless others.  
Before Sherlock could say anything else, John’s eyes closed and the slight smile was frozen on his pale face.  
‘Sherlock! Sherlock, move out of the way, we need to try and bring him back!’  
Sherlock screamed, lashing out at everybody. He pushed people away and gave John two kisses, breathing into him. He then brought his trembling hands to his chest and pushed again and again, shouting ‘DON’T YOU FUCKING LEAVE ME, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY I EVER LEFT YOU, JUST DON’T DO IT TO ME!’  
Everyone else around was crying or too shocked to react. Eventually Sherlock was pushed away, paramedics taking over, trying to start John’s heart again using a defibrillator. Sherlock just sat on the snow. He curled into a ball and stuck his face into the ice.  
‘Sherlock, Sherlock you need to come with us, John Watson didn’t make it. Sherlock, we need to treat you for shock.’  
Sherlock just stayed where he was, his face still in the slush. He was so cold, inside and out. Then, everything went silent as he passed out. From inside his head heard John’s voice – ‘Never be alone. Promise me you will never be alone, Sherlock.’ Sherlock drifted into his dream, unconsciously grabbing an imaginary John’s hand. Instead, he clutched the frozen water around him, and the sun on his back contrasted the ice in his heart: the ice that was melting because of an amazing man called John Hamish Watson.


End file.
